Appearances
by fantacination
Summary: Grell was encroaching a full six and a half inches into his neat and orderly territory. That was six and a half inches more of gender-confused coworker in his office than necessary. Grell/William, pre-series and Will is the new boy on the block.


**Appearances**

_Fantacination _

Disclaimer: Kuroshitsuji and all related characters and ideas belong to Toboso Yana. (and squeenix, but they practically own everything.)

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William wasn't sure what he'd done to deserve this.

He had the best grades in his graduating batch. His work ethic was flawless. All the teachers praised the name of William T. Spears. He'd even been polite to the receptionist!

But despite all his best efforts to lobby for a better place, he had been put in the cubicle next to the most annoying reaper to ever clop into head quarters in high heels. The same reaper who also happened to hold the record for most rule violations for nearly fifty years and still going strong. Why they hadn't forcibly relieved the redhead of his duties was a complete mystery.

Perhaps they were short handed.

Even William would have to concede to that.

Being a death god just wasn't as popular as it used to be in the hey days of Marie Antoinette. You had a casualty or twenty in the ranks and suddenly all the other supernatural kids had better things to do. Besides, being short handed meant more work. Without compensation. It was a nightmare waiting to happen.

"William," a too familiar voice sing-songed.

"Do you want to have lunch with me~?" Grell Sutcliffe, also known as The Pain In William Spears Posterior, was peering over the cubicle wall, chin on folded arms. Messy ruby-red hair spilled over his shoulders, dripping like blood into his cubicle.

William's eye twitched. Grell was encroaching a full six and a half inches into his neat and orderly territory. That was six and a half inches more of gender-confused coworker in his office than necessary.

"Your hair grossly exceeds regulation length, the color is obtrusive, and your suit is sloppy." William pushed his glasses up, glaring for good measure like he could shame the other into showing up for work in a pristine starched funeral suit set and a crew cut. Just _looking_ at the messy ribbon around Grell's neck was annoying. His hands itched, wanting to straighten it out.

"Furthermore, it's only eight in the morning. It's far too early for lunch."

Realizing his hands weren't about to stop itching, William frowned (indistinguishable from his usual expression, but it was the thought that counted) and neatened up the papers on his desk. Unnecessary. The few small stacks of reports on cinematic records that were on the desk were ruler straight and organized alphabetically. With a cross reference chart neatly paperclipped to each document.

He was rather proud of it.

"You say all those things like it was bad, William! You can't expect a lady to dress so drably. It's got to be red. _Red!_" Grell put lace-gloved hands on hips. Yet another of his fashion innovations, William supposed. He couldn't even-

His thoughts were interrupted when Grell cheerfully vaulted the cubicle wall, landing in perfect step inside the room. His shoes were unpolished. There were even specks of old blood on them. In a pattern that vaguely resembled the Big Dipper… This man was a slob! And he was his senior? _Unforgivable._

Promotion couldn't come too soon.

"You know, your eyebrow is doing that funny little thing again."

Twitch.

"It's so _sexy_~ "

Twitch. _Twitch._

"How about coming home with me tonight, Will~?"

William ignored the petname (the fifty-third time, and while disrespecting a senior coworker was taboo, tolerating the behavior was giving him ulcer.)

"Please go back to your cubicle," William grit out.

Grell pouted. A death god who was maybe a hundred and fifty years ("a lady never tells~!") his senior was _pouting_.

Then the redhead smiled, his eyes half-lidded and the long false lashes casting shadows on his pale cheeks. The sharp-toothed smile widened as he fluidly draped himself over William's shoulders, one finger tracing circles on his immaculately starched breastpocket.

"You always play so hard to get. But I like that about you." His breath gusted into William's ear mingling with the heavy floral scent emanating from his clothes.

William wrinkled his nose. "You smell unpleasant."

Grell blinked. All pretense at sultry seduction evaporating in the wind.

"But this is Chanel No.5 you know! Cha-nel*!" he protested.

Summoning his deathscythe (it was perfect, for times like these), William rammed the blunt oaken end into the other death god's gut. He would've used the other end, but blood was always hell to get out of the carpet.

"Please go back to your own cubicle," he repeated in monotone.

"Ahh, you're always so _rough_." It was amazing, really, how Grell Sutcliffe could make everything sound so _lewd_.

He could feel a migraine coming on. "You can go by yourself or I can force you there- using my deathscythe." He brandished it warningly. The tip of the metal clippers just barely grazed the other's chest.

"You can use your '_deathscythe'_ on me anytime, Wi- I'm going, I'm going!"

Note for future reference: threatening Grell's face with very sharp metal is the most effective way to get him to behave. It was by far the most useful thing William had learned in the past three weeks he'd been there. (Given that the other lessons included which colors clashed with blood red, that mink reeked when steeped in blood, and never to sleep in his cubicle, this was unsurprising.)

Grell turned rapidly, smoothly, his coattails flapping and the beaded chain of his glasses clicking against one another. He was like a red whirlwind in a six feet square office. And one trailing end of ribbon floated over his shoulder.

William's hand itched.

"Wait."

"Huh?"

Irritated, William marched in front of Grell and grabbed the limp ends of the striped red ribbon at Grell's neck. Deftly, his head bowed over his work, he tied the long strips of silk into a neat little knot.

"Hmmm," Grell murmured. When William looked up, the other was smiling slyly, a small knowing look in entirely serious glass green eyes.

"You've really got a cute side to you, too, Will-iam."

"…._Out_."

But it was that annoying laughter that followed the redheaded reaper out.

And for the first time, William T. Spears had the tiniest inkling he'd just missed something important.

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* Chanel no 5 was produced around the 1920s, and thus is 19 years after the end of the Victorian period (which is when the series is set, so it becomes a time diff of about 119 years...). Then again, so is television (1930?). And we know Ciel has _that_ and the bloody count(??) children's(??) shows has been produced and watched and gotten popular in that time. Same goes for death gods having cubicles. It's corporate, yo.


End file.
